The Art Of Giving

Today, I was listening to "Judy Is A Dick Slap", which has no lyrics, and isn't really identifiable as B&S, on my iTunes 6.0.5 in AAC format, and I thought I really like this song.

A few years ago, moments after I'd purchased Legal Man, which contains the aforementioned "Judy" and another CD by Belle and Sebastian that had a groovy Jesus Christ Superstar-like cover (but awful music), I ran into Dudley and Stephin in my favorite coffee shop, which is no more. Dudley wanted to know what I'd bought at the record store. Stephin, as always, maintained his characteristic pregnant pause throughout the entire conversation, but was also very interested. I showed them. Dudley said "oh" and Stephin rolled his eyes. Apparently, there was some kind of rivalry thing going on that I'd not received the memo about. Dudley filled me in later.

Trainer kicked my ass again wednesday. He is working me to failure on each exercise, so the weight is very heavy. In order to complete the number of repetitions he wants from me, I have turned up my intensity. I can do it without anger now...my only job it to push heavy weight. In many ways, it's like meditation: once I remove all thinking, I can more powerfully do. Plus, my gay ghetto gym has turned up the temperature on the air conditioning, so it's rather hot, which adds to the intensity.

First we did free weight squats. I've always had disproportionately strong legs (soccer, running, fencing, biking, and rugby), so his first guess for me was way too light. Every set he racheted up the weight. When it got scary, he spotted me. Hands on my torso, with his squat following mine. My ass was in his crotch. I love how our two intentions dovetail so cleanly, so simply. He wants to build my legs and ass even more, and he wants to get really close to me, chest to back, butt to crotch. When it was apparent that I was going to do eight reps of 275lbs and fail on exactly the raise of number eight rep, I felt something in my rear...he was getting hard. It wasn't severe, just a wiggle. We were both really focused on the amount of weight I was carrying, but it was a sensation, one that contributed to my intensity. When we completed it he joked about it. "Well, at least we know that in nine months we'll have our first baby". We did two more sets of decreasing weight after that. I did six sets of squats.

Next was leg press. He had the weight up on this one. My quads were already jelly by this point, so I could barely push out what he asked of me. I did most of it, until the legs just quit.

We moved on to hamstring curls. I thought we were done before this, but he had me do six sets of this. Amazingly, I could curl the weight (with no assistance from any other part of my leg) and did so. His hand was on my lower back to check my posture.

I kept thinking okay. and that is that. That wasn't that.

We went to the smith machine to do lunges. Lots of lunges. I could barely push the weight. This time he spotted me from the front, only when it was apparent that I wasn't going to be able to re-rack the bar. I did all the sets; the last three my legs stopped working on the way up on the last repetition.

We did some crunches, he put me on the padded table and stretched out my legs. He looked at me while pushing my bent knee into my chest, laying on it, and said "You did amazing today."

My walk home was more of a drunken stumble; my legs were not entirely under my command.

My trainer was kicking my ass Monday. He loaded all the weights with plates way beyond what I could do alone, to test my maximum on everything. Then would make me do 10 sets, while he assisted, ensuring that I was doing my 100% super maximum on every rep.

He ceased being gentle with me when I told him I played rugby for two years, liked taking coaching without thinking about it, had a Division I woman rugby player trainer who kicked my ass and once made me throw up during a training class, and that I had a high tolerance for pain, showing off my sleeve tattoo which I did on three Advil over a period of five hours. I think he was about ready to jizz on me when I told him I had a spreadsheet of all the food I eat in a day, and that I had my body stats for the last four months on a spreadsheet too.

He was working my core. We spend a lot of time on this, because it's my favorite part to neglect. But I can see my strength picking up in the other exercises because of it. And, it's an opportunity to be coached, to act in the face of how much it hurts. Practice.

We did these killer ball crunches he's devised. Then went right into floor crunches with no rest, him holding my feet, looking at me. When your feet are immobilized, you can only use your abdominal muscles to pull yourself up. "Give me twenty," like I wasn't going to give him it. I whipped through ten and he said "Wow, you're going to do it. I wonder what the little prize will be when you get to twenty?" He kept smiling at me. The look was twofold, and it caused me to pause. There was something behind the smile: his stare was deeper than it needed to be. It was a mixture of you're doing great and attraction. He was looking at something he enjoyed looking at: me. He moved his head to be over my knees. When I came up, we were almost nose to nose. We weren't going to touch accidentally, but he was closer than he needed to be to hold my feet down.

You see, I met him because I was flirting with him at the gym. I noticed him training people (most of the trainers at my gym blow, but he was actually training his clients and looked like he knew what he was doing). When they were taking a break, or the client was busy, he would look across the gym my way. A few days later, I said hello in the locker room. He's in his mid 40s. Gray shaved head. Taller. Very beefy, but looks like he can outrun me at the same time. Bikes everywhere. Is in incredible shape. In short, my type. He offered to give me a complimentary session, and I invited him to coffee. We both accepted.

I've never told you this, but when I was Recruiting Chair for my rugby club, my fellow board members referred to me as the "Recruising Chair". I had a way of creating a personal interest and an interest in the game at the same time. It was how I was recruited, and I'm not afraid to steal what works. I have no recruiting shame.

I finished 20 crunches, and flopped back on the mat. He stood over me. "Atta boy". Then he grabbed my arm and pulled me up. "On the ball, we're going to do this two more times." And he smiled that smile.

We turned up the amps. Me and my peeps. I love being in Jennie's band. *Sizzle*. She pops out the lyrics

Got hair in a girl
That flows to her bones
And a comb in her pocket
If the wind get blown

I plug in the change. I rock the guitar, yo. Something I've never told you: every time I play, it reminds me of the time I replaced the clutch on my car, four months before I totaled it. I did it in the drive behind my apartment building in St. Louis. Fourteen years ago. All cables and struts. A mess. But a wonderful machine, when it works. It either works, or it doesn't. Disaster, or delight.

Stripes on her eyes when she walks slow
But her face falls down
When she go, go, go

The other day, she told me that if I didn't get with the program, I'd be out of the band. She keeps me straight and narrow: I hadn't been practicing. Not my guitar, yo, but my voice. And not that kind of straight. I'm singing the chorus. I'm in a state. I plug in the change on the guitar. I love this part, because I get to ROCK OUT:

Black tear falling on my lazy queen
Gotta tattooed tit say number 13

And then the sound guy turned on my mic, and I belt it out, because I'd let go of caring:

I don't speak spanish, but neither does Black Francis. I always thought it would be more wonderful to have Jennie just sing the whole song, but she's the leader of the group, so I just jump in whenever she wants me to. Besides, I secretly like playing Black Francis.

Last night a friend I'd gone out of touch with cooked me dinner. It was not unlike the dinners he cooked when he, his last boyfriend, my former co-fiend, and I shared my former co-fiend's house on Fire Island. He had chosen to end his relationship with his last boyfriend a few months ago; they'd been together for nine years. My friend is as sexually and emotionally monogomous as they come; in fact, he hadn't really been playing around nine years ago, before he met said former boyfriend. There was a lot of catching up to do.

The conversation inevitably turned to sex. As it does. He wanted to know where I find sex, with no attachments, but with people who are fun, not sexually compulsive types. I gave him a ten minute summary of all the places I'd found sex, when I chose to find it, in the last ten months. I was surprised: it was a rather long list. I mentioned the internet. The two internet profiles I have and their two distinct uses (although the results in relationships formed are indistinguishable, they give entree to two different kinds of folk). The parties I have frequented (as in the makeout party last November, repeated 4 times in the last ten months). My new ghetto gym, which I love, and has turned into a really friendly group of guys, some of whom are frisky. My old classy gym. A gym I visited once as the guest of a friend. A bar I have been to a couple of times. The bookstore. The coffeeshop. Eighth Avenue. Seventh Avenue. Sixth Avenue. Ninth Avenue. Tenth Avenue. The dog run. The party at Webster Hall at the end of the Bingham Cup, where I made out with half of the Sydney roster. And countless encounters on sidewalks, in shops, on the occasional subway trip (I rarely ride anymore, I can walk everywhere), at dinner, at parties, at New York, on a vacation.

What I got from the recounting was than when I'm looking, I look everywhere. It's how I operate. I find business opportunities everywhere. I find friends everywhere. I find love everywhere. I find sex everywhere. Because I don't have lingering anger, resentment, hate, or disappointment in my head, there are no barriers between this time of the day, the night, and that time of the day, the night. And so everything is available to me. He took mental notes.

Coffee. That's me. I'm the wave of the future. I'm the alpha and the omega. Oh, sure. Tea tries to rope you in with that "Morning Thunder" bullshit, but don't you buy it. It will never replace me. COFFEE! Coca-Cola? What are you, seven? Be a man. Be a woman. Drink me! Alice! Drink me! I won't make you taller or shorter, but you'll be the most productive bitch in the land.

That rugby Saturday that I wrote about (Saturday is the rugby day, is everybody happy? You bet your ass we're happy! La, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la) ended in a way I alluded to. After I'd cleared myself from feeling disconnected, I was able to be with friends, old acquaintances, and people I thought lived in Europe. This latter, a fellow back three I played with in Bingham London, 2004, now lives in Princeton and offered to give me and Kimble a ride back to Manhattan in his car. I accepted.

On the gravel road leaving the pitches, there was walking, shirtless and in rugby shorts, the hottie I'd been eyeing all day from the Sydney team. As we approached, I asked my friend if he would like to give this hottie a ride too. I think what I said was (while panting) "Hey, let's pick this guy up!". Not the most polite or powerful request, but my friend was probably listening to my rugby-pitch voice, which is all about yelling stuff out efficiently, discarding all the pleasantries. So he accepted my request "Sure" and I rolled down my window and asked if he'd like a lift. He stuttered and said yes.

He was Yas, and was going to a part of Manhattan we weren't. My friend had somplace to be so he offered to drop Yas off immediately on the other side of the bridge, in Harlem, so he could catch a cab. He agreed. As we were riding, we got acquainted. My friend and I had played in London. I had scored the massively awesome try against Paris that caused a fight. I was sunburned badly, and Yas poked my shoulder. "Mate, you're pretty burned there." Then we dropped him off and he was gone. I spent my nap time thinking about him.